You Are My World
Oliver and Emily lived in the same building, on the same floor, just doors apart. Oliver had just started Year Five and was considered responsible enough to look after five-year-old Emily, who lived across the hall. Her mother was a surgeon and often got called in on weekends for emergencies.
Oliver took his role seriously—feeding her, scolding her when she misbehaved, standing up for her. Emily, in turn, followed him everywhere, her big blue eyes fixed on him like he hung the moon.
One summer, Emily caught tonsillitis. In June, of all times! Oliver spent the whole day with her. His mates knew where to find him—they rang the doorbell, asking him to come out for football.
“Can’t. Got Emily,” he said firmly.
“Bring her along! She can cheer,” suggested Alfie.
“She’s got a fever. Not happening. Play without me today.”
“How? Who’ll man the goal?” grumbled Paul, cross.
“Take turns,” Oliver shrugged, watching their disappointed faces.
“Nah, that’s rubbish. We’ll stay in too.”
“Fine,” Oliver sighed, letting them inside.
Emily sat on the sofa, a scarf wrapped around her neck, flipping through a picture book. She lit up when she saw the boys.
“This is Paul and Alfie,” Oliver introduced them. “They’re staying with us. That alright?”
“Read to me,” she said, shoving the book at them with childish insistence.
“Let’s build a fort instead,” Paul said, eyeing the round table in the middle of the room.
“How? We don’t have branches or straw,” the feverish spark in Emily’s eyes flickered between sickness and excitement.
“Don’t need straw. Can we use the sofa blanket?” Paul asked. “Drape it over the table—instant den.”
One blanket wasn’t enough, so Emily directed Oliver to the spare in the cupboard. Soon, all four were crammed under the table, the air thick and dark, hearts pounding with thrilling fear.
“Let’s tell scary stories,” Alfie suggested. “My grandad fought in the war.”
“Boring,” Paul groaned.
“You should see his medals. Loads of ’em. He delivered bread during the Blitz.”
“Still boring. War stories are dull.”
“You don’t get it. People ate rats. Made bread from sawdust. Even—”
“Stop! People don’t eat people!” Emily shrank into Oliver, trembling.
“I know scarier stories,” Paul cut in, grinning. “There’s this shadow man. Last year at camp, we told his story every night. Proper creepy.”
Emily froze. The word *shadow* alone was terrifying in the dark. Her small frame shook.
“He wears all black. If you’re not looking, he snatches you—gone forever. Loves little kids most. Run off from your parents, and—”
“Enough. You’re scaring her,” Oliver snapped, feeling Emily’s grip tighten. “She won’t sleep tonight.”
“I’m not little,” Emily sniffed. “But I don’t like the shadow man. It’s too scary.”
The front door clicked open. The kids froze. Slow footsteps neared, then paused just beside them. Paul squirmed, Alfie’s breathing turned ragged. Emily pressed her ear to Oliver’s chest, his heartbeat thunderous.
The blanket lifted. Emily screamed.
“There you are!” Mum’s voice rang out.
“Mummy!” Emily scrambled out and flung herself at her.
“Why’s the table covered? What were you doing under there?” Mum eyed the ruffled boys.
“It’s a den. We told scary stories,” Emily babbled.
“And you weren’t scared?”
“Was. Then we heard steps—thought the shadow man got us.”
“What shadow man?” Mum’s sharp gaze landed on Oliver. He ducked his head, guilty.
“Right. Fold this mess up and wash your hands. Dinner’s ready.”
After dinner, Oliver and the boys finally played football. Mum tucked Emily in, but every time she closed her eyes, the shadow man lurked.
Years passed. Oliver started secondary school; Emily, barely in Year One. He rarely babysat now—she was big enough to stay alone. Yet she still trailed after him, begging to tag along. If the boys refused, she’d cry, and Oliver always caved.
He taught her to skate, reheat soup, love adventure books. By sixth form, he traded lads’ nights for dates with a pretty classmate, Alice. Once, Emily saw them kissing behind the house—her childish heart shattered.
After school, Oliver went to Sandhurst, rarely home. Emily was glad—no girls around—but missed him terribly.
On leave once, he visited when her parents were out. Seeing him in uniform, Emily blushed. Oliver, too, noticed how she’d grown—soft curves, long lashes. Over lunch, his glances made her cheeks burn.
Mum quizzed him about postings. He answered, eyes fixed on Emily. Then his parents returned, and he left without a word.
He was stationed abroad; Emily went to med school. Three years later, he came home. She waited by the window, heart racing at every footstep.
“He’s grown. Needs a wife. You’ve studying to do. Forget him,” Mum said.
But Emily couldn’t. Then she saw him—helping a pregnant woman from a taxi. Her stomach dropped. *He’s married.*
She locked herself in her room, sobbing. Mum was right. Yet forgetting him was impossible. She fled to Brighton, and when she returned, he was gone.
Years later, *Dr. Emily Carter* was respected, swarmed by male patients’ advances. She ignored them all.
Then a new patient arrived. “Gorgeous officer,” nurses whispered. “Pity if he’s crippled.”
Emily recognized him instantly—the man from her dreams. But Oliver didn’t know her, her face half-hidden behind a mask.
The nurses flirted, dubbing him *Heathcliff* for his brooding silence.
One day, limping in early, Oliver studied her unveiled face. Something nagged at him.
Outside, a storm broke, thunder shaking the building. Emily flinched.
“Scared of storms?” he teased.
“Yes. Boys used to tell me about the shadow man.”
He stared. “Emily?” The name clicked. “You work here? I’ve thought of you often. Married?”
“Are you?” she countered.
“No. Never found someone like you.”
“But—I saw you with a pregnant woman…”
He frowned, then laughed. “Ah! My mate’s wife. He couldn’t get leave, so I escorted her. They named their son after me.”
Emily’s breath caught. All these years, wasted.
Another thunderclap. She shuddered.
“Remember our den? How you screamed when your mum lifted the blanket?” His gaze was tender now—nothing like childhood. She longed to lean in but only smiled.
“My happiest memory.”
“Duty calls.”
He left. Next day, he returned with flowers.
“Never gave you any. Correcting that,” he said softly. “I leave in an hour.”
“What? Your treatment—?”
“Discharged. Dad’s ill. Emily, I need to say—”
“Dr. Carter, the consultant wants you,” a nurse interrupted, batting her lashes at Oliver.
He was gone before she returned.
Two weeks later, he barged in mid-consultation.
“Before you vanish again—marry me.” He held out a ring.
Emily gaped. The patient discreetly slipped out.
“I’m staying. Spoke to the consultant—he’ll help me find work here.” His eyes searched hers. “You’re quiet. Too late?”
“Yes. A lifetime too late,” she whispered, resting her head on his chest. His heartbeat was just as she remembered.
Love. We argue over its meaning, chase it, mistake gratitude or pity for it. Often, we don’t recognize it until it’s gone—only then realising it was the one thing that made life worth living. And then, against all odds, we fight to get it back.
